


Vows

by MadeofLilies



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Eventual Romance, Explicit Language, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Humor, Heavy Drinking, Not Canon Compliant, Sandor being Sandor, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-19
Updated: 2019-07-07
Packaged: 2020-03-08 00:08:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18884092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadeofLilies/pseuds/MadeofLilies
Summary: A faithful dog or a broken man… Whatever the case, Sandor has taken vows he does not intend on breaking.





	1. Silenced Songbirds

If there is one thing your father taught you to beware, that was conceit, and the spiteful child they named ‘king’ is always full of it.

He feeds off violence, shows no mercy and convinces himself he’s above all. You bite your tongue, keep quiet like you’ve been warned to do, time after time.

Yet when his cruelty turns to Sansa, something snaps inside you. Joffrey’s eyes turn to you, green and cold just like his mother’s, but filled with such hatred that you’re certain you won’t make it out alive.

“You should know better than to interfere when I’m addressing my bride, although such behavior is to be expected of savage northern whores…”

His hand reaches for your face and grasps your jaw almost painfully, forcing you to look at him, to fear him.

“…perhaps I should take it upon myself to educate you.”

Your sister’s cries are distant and your body jerks towards her but his grip doesn’t waver.

“Ser Meryn, why don’t you go ahead and teach her some manners?”

The larger man does not need to be told twice.

The strike is sudden and hard, it sends you to your knees and echoes in the room with its high pillars and majestic dome, all built at the expense of others. The taste of blood reaches your mouth, one you haven’t experienced in years, ever since you fell off your horse while racing John.

“It’s a shame really, to mar a lovely face. Thank the gods you won’t be mine to look at.”

And when your dress is half-ripped from you, no one bats an eye. You don’t have the strength to look up, hands busy conserving what’s left of your dignity.

The grand door opens and heavy steps sound, but your ears are ringing so loudly, it’s all muttering to you.

But then you feel hands on your forearms, heavy fabric being laid on you for the sake of your modesty. The man’s breathing is soft in your ear as he gathers in you in his arms, like the wounded bird he thinks you are.

You hear the youngest Lannister speak counted, educated words so unlike the spiteful ones of the child king. It all fades in the background once you’re out of the throne room.

You curl into the giant man, something so unlike you and any other Stark. It’s funny really, your father called you ‘girl’, your mother called you ‘woman’ but in this godforsaken place, you feel like neither. Sparks seem to ignite inside you every so often, lighting the fire of survival.

And at times like this, you feel helpless. You’re a girl now, no doubt.

So you curl into the Hound’s arms and wait. For what, you don’t know. Maybe another act of violence, some hateful word to fall from his lips or for him to dismiss you when you need him so badly. He’s nothing to you, but he’s all you got now.

When he places you back on the ground, his gaze is soft, driving your eyes away from the angry scar.

“You think you can stand on yer own, little bird?”

You only nod and it’s timid… tired.

“Good. Off you go then, you should get that thing looked at.”

On pure instinct, your hand reaches for your face, pressing down the numb area where Trant struck. The blood is sticky on your hands but the pain has not kicked in yet.

“Go on now, you wouldn’t want to get a scar on such a pretty face.”

You move to unwrap his cloak from your shoulders, modesty be damned, but he stops you. His hand moves to your cheek, right above the red print of a hand that he should rip off, and dripping blood that he wipes away with a swipe of his thumb.

“I’ll send a maester. Now go.”

He’s not sure if it’s a ‘thank you’ you mutter, but he watches you go, his songbird with broken wings.

As night gathers he returns to your hallway, seats himself in some dark corner. Close enough to keep an eye on you, far enough to not attract any attention. A handmaiden comes and goes, always walks a little faster when their gazes meet.

He drinks plenty, watches the sunrise from the high window.

When you finally emerge, clad in a new dress and thicker skin, he’s not there.


	2. A King's Orders

It happens again.

You bite your tongue, you do. Curl your lip and turn your gaze elsewhere because Sansa asked you, begged you to. You’re all she has in this forsaken city and she needs you to keep your head on your shoulders so you stay quiet.

She had the chance to end this…all of it. The youngest Lannister offered to assist in ending her betrothal to the monster king and she refused. The night she told you, you cried and so did she.

Now as you stand before him, almost broken in spirit and derived from words, you understand why she did it. There is no escaping him.

Ever since the riots, his violent acts have stopped. His cruelty shows only in words now and you suspect they had something to do with it. As has his uncle, ever honest, ever prepared to put him in his place.

And yet, you fear him more now. It’s something about those wretched green eyes and the way he calls you ‘darling sister’, cradles your cheek and runs his thumb right across where Meryn Trant left his mark.

“You understand, of course, that it’s my duty as a king and brother-to-be to find you a suited husband. A fair maiden can only roam the court unwed for so long.”

His grip on your chin tightens.

“I understand, your grace.”

He smiles and there’s nothing more chilling.

“And you understand that as the daughter of a traitor, not many would offer to take you as a wife.”

“Yes, your grace.”

“A disgraced house gives disgraced children and although I, in my infinite kindness, remained faithful to my bride, no sensible man would want anything to do with a Stark bitch.”

Sansa watches, her eyes burning into your back, her mind reciting prayers for her beloved sister.

“So the question remains, darling sister, what am I to do with you?”

“Whatever you wish to, your grace.”

Joffrey hates you so deeply, wishes you would return to your old ways and talk back, give him a reason to strike your serene face, to taste your blood on his fingertips.

“Perhaps you should be given to Ser Meryn. I am certain that my bride would appreciate it if you remained a part of the court. A familiar face to comfort the future queen.”

You hear Sansa gasp behind you, the protective shell she’s built around her crumbling, revealing underneath the scared girl she was not long ago. For the first time in a while, she allows her voice to tremble.

“But members of the Kingsguard cannot take a wife, my lord. It’s written in their vows.”

“No vow overrides the orders of the king. Your lovely sister would finally be of use to the crown, producing heirs for one of the greatest and most skilled warriors in Westeros.”

“Forgive me, your grace, but my sister-”

“Your sister is no use to me, my lady. Soon she will be too old to marry and she carries the blood of an entire family of foolish traitors. She would be fortunate enough to be wed do a dog, let alone an esteemed member of the Kingsguard.”

Silence washes over the room, Joffrey’s hand coming to wrap around your neck. He does not apply pressure, merely watches your eyes widen and then close in anticipation. 

Sansa refuses to cry, but in the quiet of the throne room, her heavy breathing prevails. 

The Hound watches from his corner, unflinching.

Yet his eyes narrow at the boy-king’s fingers on your throat.

“But then again, upon second thought, Ser Meryn would be far from an ideal match. Perhaps it’s a dog that my darling sister needs, to own and do with her as he pleases.”

“My lord-”

Fingers tighten, press into delicate skin and make your breath hitch.

“What do you think, dog?” Sandor’s figure is large and overwhelming as he emerges from the shadows.

“I have no need for a wife, yer grace.”

“I’m not offering a wife, hound. I’m offering you a bitch.”


	3. Lord Husband

The cloak remains on your shoulders, a heavy reminder of your new title.

You hear the door open and close but keep your eyes on the view from the small window, the sun setting and melting into a beautiful accord of pinks and yellows. It almost calms your nerves, just almost.

His steps are loud, they’ve always been but in the confined space of these quarters, they seem deafening. You can’t help but flinch, which he notices, gathers you’re afraid of him.

Wrong. It’s not him that you fear, but your new circumstances.

He pours himself a glass of wine, the good kind you would only find in the king’s court. A gift from Tyrion Lannister, along with a request that he does not harm the older Stark girl. As if he would ever.

“Stare at it all ye want, the sky’s not goin’ to change its fucking colors.”

“It will, by nighttime.” Sandor snorts at that and realizes you truly are a Stark, clever answers always at the edge of your tongue.

“That’s a long time to stare a’ nothing.”

You turn to him, shift your body enough so that you’re facing the man they call ‘Hound’, the fearsome warrior and now, your husband.

“I suppose you’re right.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake, how ‘bout ye have a drink and stop shaking like a fish?”

“I cannot help it, my lord.”

The man scoffs and it’s loud and graceless just like everything else about him.

“I’m no fucking lord, girl. And there’s no need to be so scared, I won’t lay a hand on ye.”

He watches your eyes widen, beautiful features of the north lifting in shock.

“But you’re my lord husband-“

“I’m just a dog following orders, nothin’ more. Because ye see, little bird, one day a pretty little lord of some house will come your way and try to wed and bed ye and certainly won’t appreciate finding out you were spoiled by some brat king’s dog.”

Lovely eyebrows almost meet in a frown, relief washing over you before a newfound curiosity sneaks its way inside your brain.

“You seem awfully convinced that our marriage shall be forgotten as fast as it was ordered. You must not have a lot of faith in your king’s reign then.”

The corner of his mouth lifts, an almost smile, but it’s one you’ve never before witnessed on this man.

“Let’s call it a hunch, girl. So drink some wine, lock the door and take the bed for the night.”

He makes to stand and immediately, you feel impossibly small compared to his size.

When your mouth makes out words, it’s a whisper, “And where will you lay?”

“Nowhere near your noble virtues, rest assured.”

He stands to leave, one large hand grabbing the bottle and another the door.

“Get some rest, little bird. Noone’s gonna touch ye in here.”

And you do.

  ◇─◇──◇────◇────◇────◇────◇──◇─◇  

Eleven nights and eleven mornings come and go. Noone dares set foot in your chambers except for the doting handmaidens and sweet Sansa, ever prepared to weep for your misfortune. She begs for the truth, that you share your burdens with her and confess the monstrosities of your husband.

There is no such thing to share.

Sandor remains but a shadow in your life. Nothing but fleeting glances of him when you do leave the quarters you’re supposed to share. Your handmaiden swears she will speak nothing of his absence and calls this union your best chance at safety in this city.

The Hound’s lady wife now more than ever seems unapproachable. The king himself seems to neglect your presence in the court, rather focused on the impending threat that is Stannis Baratheon. He is content to let you suffer in the hands of his dog, for now, longs for the sight of bruises and misery on you next time your paths cross.

So for now, there is quietness. The days are idled away, resting on armchairs near the window and taking walks in the most secluded parts of the gardens, admiring all you had hated upon your arrival. The quietness makes everything beautiful and you find yourself entranced by blends of pink and yellow flowers. It dawns on you then, just how far away from home you are, far from the northern winds and Godswood.

For the rest of the morn, there is an odd sadness following you. When before your mind was plagued by thoughts of your family, now images of your home flood it. Beds with furs and the never-ending lessons with Septa Mordane who once slapped you for ruining Sansa’s needlework after you took the blame for Arya’s antics.

What you wouldn’t give to go back in the days when a septa’s rage was the worst thing to fear.

The last rays of sunlight for the day kiss the water of Blackwater Bay and light escapes your chambers. For the longest time, your hands are weaving through curls, braiding and unbraiding with no purpose. A bowl of grapes lies untouched on the small table that’s stained with wine, the only other piece of furniture in here save for the bed and armchair.

Sandor Clegane is either a modest man or entirely indifferent.

Your eyes fall on the expensive fabric tossed beside the bed, all butterscotch yellow and black thread embroideries with your husband’s sigil. It’s the same cloak he lay on your shoulders just days ago, large and warm like the man himself. 

The man whose eyes never leave you once they find you but spends his every night in another’s bed.

The man who always barks at you to mind your own business and yet respects you enough to never touch you.

That mystery of a man whom you fear and respect all the same… your lord husband.


	4. Longings

>  
> 
> _Like the beautiful bodies of those who died before growing old,_
> 
> _sadly shut away in sumptuous mausoleum,_
> 
> _roses by the head, jasmine at the feet -_
> 
> _so appear the longings that have passed_
> 
> _without being satisfied, not one of the granted_
> 
> _a single night of pleasure, or one of its radiant mornings._
> 
> **_Longings ~ Constantine P. Cavafy_**

 

When he wakes, the room is dimly lit, a couple of flickering candles almost burnt down to the wick. Everything seems to be covered in smoke and the foul, acrid odor of tallow. There are stains of dried ale all over his tunic, the watery kind he’s been downing for days, and the straw bed barely beats the comfort of hardwood floors, but he got what he paid for and he’s not planning on wasting every last coin so that the Stark girl will enjoy her privacy.

There’s heavy pounding at the door, the voices outside rising to a crescendo of rage before a man barges inside the room, short and drunk as any, followed by the stocky woman who robs Sandor blind every night for a pint of ale and broth you wouldn’t feed a pig.

“You got the money yet? We gave ya two days, s’time to pay up.”

His head is pounding as he rises from the bed, body aching in every way imaginable and hand twitching at the thought of silencing the scum before him.

The man’s hands get a hold of Sandor’s shirt, and the woman gasps. when he reaches for his sword, heavy metal pulling at his muscles.

“Listen here, pest, you ever let yer filthy hands near me again, you’ll be searching for them outside the city walls. Have I made myself clear?”

“Aye, ser.”

Sandor grunts, half satisfaction, half pain when the rage inside him fades.

“Don’t let me see you again.”

They both scurry away like frightened mice, filthy insects running from his boot.

The entire place stinks of wine and piss, dirt everywhere around him, and suddenly he longs for the comfort of his own chambers. Dark curtains that spare him from painful sunlight, fine selections of wine and peaceful silence, all things that made it his personal heaven until a certain northern girl invaded his life.

Now everything in it smells of rosewater.

They are no longer his quarters. The she-wolf took over with her many braids, silken dresses, and glassy Stark eyes that he would kill for, without knowing why. In her new lair, she takes the time to heal and lick her wounds. As wolves do, away from the eyes of others in fear of proving weak and falling prey to bigger predators.

Sandor allows it.

Within the hour, he’s ready to leave.

A little girl helps him dress, meekly passing him pieces of his armor despite him telling her there’s no need. She’s small and bruised all over, an abstract sculpture of bones that has seen and felt too much. He only lets her help when he sees the fear in her eyes and suspects that should he send her back, she might receive a beating.

When he’s strapping up, she takes the chance to shove her tiny hands into his pockets, quick and smooth as if she’s been trained for this. She walks away with two copper pennies.

He allows it.

* * *

 

When he reaches the room, the door is ajar and he’s almost angry at how you never fail to make yourself vulnerable. There are threats left and right and you might as well be welcoming them. He moves to knock, he really does, but the wind beats him to it, pushing the door enough so that he might get a glimpse at you.

Suddenly, making his presence known doesn’t seem as appealing.

Your hair lies long and loose, obscuring the lightness of your dress, yet allowing glimpses of skin on your arms in a southern fashion. For once no plaits adorn it and it hangs in all its northern glory – a sharp contrast.

The handmaiden floats around you, hands curling in your locks as she runs a brush through them, tugging a little too painfully at every knot. He supposes a Stark girl’s hair is not made for this.

‘Any word from your brother, my lady?”

You hum and for a moment he deems it the most peaceful sound he’s ever heard from your lips, but it’s sorrowful. You accepted your fate long ago.

“Is there ever? I’m afraid the king is much too occupied with the newest impending threat. I suppose my brother is too small an enemy to consider when Stannis Baratheon is approaching the city.”

Nira gasps, almost dropping the brush and Sandor laughs to himself from where he stands behind the door. The maiden is older than you, yet you outsmart her in so many ways, you might not be quite the little bird he thought you were.

“Do you truly believe it, my lady, that Stannis will reach the capital?”

“Has the world ever known a Baratheon who failed to succeed in their quest? He will reach the city, Nira, for that rest assured. What happens after that, remains to be seen.”

She moves to face you, resting on her knees to grab your hands with a familiarity that surprises Sandor.

His lady wife is good at making friends.

“Even so, the King’s army will hold. The Lannister troops are already flooding the city, Lord Tywin made sure of it. No harm will come to you, my lady.”

Your own hand raises to her face, a gentle cradle of her cheek – a mother’s touch, the kind he’s long forgotten.

“I have no fear of Stannis. My greatest enemies surround me every day.”

“And yet, it seems that your lord husband’s presence has discouraged them.”

“All lions quiet before attacking their prey.”

The door slams then, the force of wind meets the force of man. Nira rushes to check, always mindful of her lady’s safety, but there’s no one there.

Still, the following days pass in relative silence, mindful of curious ears that creep behind closed doors. Nira has seen enough to know the crown has eyes and ears in every corner. Instead, there’s quiet singing when handling your hair and hushed whispers about childhood stories. Everything blurs with your drinking, honey mead, and berries melting on your tongue.

Sandor Clegane is nowadays quite literally, your shadow.

For a man who’s meant to guard the King, he seems to prefer keeping an eye on you. In the gardens, buried amongst roses and greenery, you can sense his presence. In the quarters you’re supposed to share, no one dares enter but Nira and yet, every now and then, you can hear heavy steps in the hallway.

He never addresses you and you feign ignorance in fear of him stopping.

Nira’s words keep coming back to you; he’s your best chance at safety in this city.

* * *

 

Footsteps follow on your trail, the same sound of armor clinking with every step, albeit more graceful, less weighty. You’re awfully used to your loyal guard stomping around court, he makes no effort to conceal his presence.

A smile tugs at your lips, you’re starting to understand Sandor Clegane.

“You can always talk to me, you know.”

A hand appears from nowhere and tightens on your wrist, white-knuckled, strong. You turn to fight it but find your feet dragging along the marble as you lose your balance. He pins you to the wall so effortlessly.

“I’m well aware, Lady Stark.”

His breath stinks and he makes a point of shoving his face as close to yours as possible, all in a way that makes your legs go weak and your stomach churn. No fear, you remind yourself. He’s no big predator, he’s but a snake, lucky enough to find a mouse on the ground. Others would crush him.

“Ser Meryn, I would ask that you remove your hands.”

Gloved fingers grasp your chin, bound to leave bruises.

“I must admit, my Lady, that for a woman broken in by the Hound himself, you seem entirely too merry. Tell me, how is your dog treating you?”

Your body recoils, almost melting to the wall in an effort to avoid the proximity.

“I would also ask that you refer to my husband by his title.”

He laughs, such a disgusting sound.

“You’re in no position to ask for things, little lady.”

“And if you don’t let her go, you’ll be in no position to walk when I’m done with you. Your head will be hanging in the throne room if I have it my way.”

Your gaze turns to Sandor, familiar heavy footsteps approaching the scene. His sword is drawn, his eyes are murderous and for the first time, you realize the day might not end with **your** blood on the floor.

Trant laughs again and it’s a death wish.

“Now, now, Hound, it’s always good to share.”

“I don’t share, especially not with cunts like you. What’s wrong, Trant? I thought you liked them younger.”

His nose moves to graze against your skin, so close to your lips, tears gather in your eyes.

A friend of Robb’s had stolen your first kiss, pinned you against a stack of hey and touched places you would never have allowed him to. Your brothers beat him to the ground the next day.

Sandor Clegane won’t avenge your honor. He’ll chop off anyone’s hands the moment they touch you.

“I like them broken first and foremost. I’m sure you’ve taken care of that.”

White knuckles from clenching his fist too hard, and gritted teeth from the effort to keep his composure, Sandor’s large form exudes a burning animosity. His face is red with suppressed rage, and when Trant’s fingers make their way towards your chest, everything snaps inside him.

His sword never meets the hideous flesh of your attacker, but his fist does. A blow to the jaw, powerful enough to make the cracking sound echo in the hallway. Then Sandor’s hands are pressing his face into the wall, a great force overpowered by one greater. It gives you the chance to escape.

Your attacker seems light-headed, gripping his shattered nose where blood runs plenty. There’s stillness on both sides. If hatred was visible, the air would be all shades of red, scarlet and ruby like the stains on Sandor’s glove. Then suddenly movement, so much force in every hit.

Sandor rains blows onto the man as if he means to smash him into the very earth and there’s barely any resistance. He doesn’t want him dead, he wants him smashed, obliterated, nothing left to bury.

The bloodied rat on the ground manages a hit on Sandor’s face and it only works to enrage him further.

You’ve seen him fight before in the tournament, moves sudden but precise when in duel, you’ve heard stories of men who’ve faced his sword, but this is different. It’s raw violence and force, uncharacteristic rage fueling him.

And then he stops.

He looks at you, always with his good side.

“Go back to yer room.”

You don’t move an inch. You know what this means, you know he’s not stopping and suddenly you’re but a youngling again, running around the training ground with Robb and Jon on your heels. Your father calls for them, forbids you from following.

At night you learn about the man whose head your father took before their eyes, a sight he sheltered you from.

You won’t let Sandor do the same.

Trant’s blood will be in your hands, whether you witness it or not. And so will your lord husband’s when word gets out that he pummeled a fellow Kingsguard member to death. You won’t allow it.

“I said, go back to yer room and lock the door. Don’t let anyone in until I tell ye.”

“I will if you come with me.”

The man scoffs, blood dripping from his fingers.

“Don’t question me, girl. I’ve got to finish some business.”

“If you stay, we both know it will be the end of you, one way or another. The things that Joffrey will do-“

“I’m not the one who needs protecting.”

“You will be if you don’t walk away. Just walk away, Sandor.”

It’s the first time he’s heard his name in a while, first time ever from your lips. Of course, he notices.

“I walk away now, he’ll do it again. I stay here and finish what I started, there’s one less cunt in this fuckin’ city.”

“And is that worth your head?”

He stares at you, so openly, his eyes still screaming murder, yet you refuse to relent.

All it takes a swing of his sword, a single move to push it in Trant’s heart while he’s gasping for air.

He turns to him, spitting on that mess of a face he’s created, branding his work, and then walks right past you, grabbing your arm right where the other man had. It hurts but you don’t dare tell him.

You let him drag you all the way to your chambers, smaller feet catching up with his strides.

* * *

He latches the door and sheds his gloves, then as many pieces of his armor as he can. He looks like he’s struggling to breathe and you worry. His face is flushed, angry scars growing paler every moment.

He reaches for the pitcher of mead on your table, a mistake. It’s awfully sweet, disgustingly so, and he spits it out the moment it meets his tongue, knocking the whole thing over in an effort to push it away.

“That’s not fucking wine.”

You move across the room, his hunched form still in the corner of your eye. His face is buried in his hands and he rubs desperately, most likely because the rush of blood in his head feels impossibly warm. That’s when you notice his bare knuckles, cut and bruised and bloodied all over.

You reach for the bottle of wine under the table, one he put there himself, and place it across him where you sit.

“You’re hurt.”

“Just shut up for a while, alright?”

You do as he asks, but your hands still reach for his. Of course, he pulls away.

“Are you fucking deaf?”

You smile, “I’m not talking.”

Sandor’s lips quirk at that. He watches you wipe away the blood, as gently as if tending to a child.

“It’s nothing.”

You only hum in response, following his previous order. The rug is wet and cold against the skin, relieving pain he has not felt yet. For once he doesn’t fight it.

“You should have let me kill ‘im.”

“I told you, the King would have your head.”

He snorts and it’s a sound you’re getting used to, “What it’s to you?”

“I have no wish for blood to be spilled in my name. Especially not yours.”

“You think of it so nobly, little bird. The blood is only in the hands of those who spill it. Guilt will get you killed, sooner or later.”

“So I’m not to hold myself accountable if you’re accused of attacking a fellow member of Kingsguard?”

The quirk falls from his lips.

“I’m not fucking Kingsguard.”

“Your armor says otherwise. And you do guard the King…”

You make him laugh and a sense of pride fills you. You gather it’s not something many can do.

Silence washes over you as you tend to his cuts, taking the bottle from his hands to pour wine on them plentiful.

“What the fuck are ye doing?

“I’ll get you more wine, but first I need to dress these.”

“They’re fine as they are.”

The look on your face gives away that you’re not backing down. Damn northern stubbornness.

You wrap his knuckles gently, a torn piece of fabric drenched in wine to prevent infections, the way your father taught you. You suppose it stings but Sandor makes no move to suggest so. When it’s done, you consider it, making sure there’s still blood flow. Your lips fall gently on the makeshift bandage in an almost kiss.

He pulls away like it burns.

“I want to thank you.”

“There’s no need, stupid girl.”

“Must you always interrupt me, my lord?”

“’m not your lord.”

“You’re my lord husband and I must address you some way. If not by title, then by name, but if you please, let me finish.”

He grows quiet.

“I want to thank you, Sandor, for everything, but I beg you, don’t fight for me. With what you did to Ser Meryn, all that Joffrey could do to you… I’m good as dead without you.”

There it is, your cards all on the table.

“I won’t turn into some cunt-proper lord just so your noble heart won’t be plagued with guilt, girl.”

“I never asked you to, I only ask that you don’t endanger yourself, certainly not for me.”

The man grunts and turns his gaze from you, which you take as a sign of agreement.

The table shakes when he moves to stand.

“One more thing.”

“Spit it out.”

“I would be forever grateful if you could move back in. It’s my understanding that you’ve established a stay elsewhere, perhaps somewhere far more convenient…” He wants to laugh, the rat-filled room where he stays coming to mind, “…but I would feel much safer if you stayed here from now on.”

You can’t help but observe him, the deepest in thought you’ve ever seen him - good hand rubbing his beard.

“I can arrange for a second bed, or I can take the floor, it’s no issue. I only ask that you don’t leave.”

“Is fear worth your reputation, little bird? People will talk.”

“We are wed before the gods, let them talk. There are few things left for them to say about me anyway.”

* * *

 

The following morning Nira arrives to find her lady awake, drinking at sunlight. A snoring lord continues his sleep undisturbed, boots half perched on the table while he rests, long and wide, on the uncomfortable armchair. The stench of wine and sweat mixes with rosewater.

Her lady smiles.

“We are going to need another mattress.”


End file.
